


If I Were Paralyzed

by mmmargo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 11x06, 11x06 fill-in, 5+1 Things, Anxiety Attacks, Bipolar Disorder, Childhood Trauma, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ian Gallagher, Reaction, best episode by far, no beta we die like men, sort of more like 4 plus 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmargo/pseuds/mmmargo
Summary: four times ian pauses + one time they talk about it
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 15
Kudos: 197





	If I Were Paralyzed

**Author's Note:**

> This took a lot longer than I expected it to. Based on Ian telling Mickey to pause and think about it. 4 times Mickey has anxiety and Ian tells him to pause and one time Mickey notices it and asks whats it about. I based some of how Mickey reacts on my own anxiety and coping mechanism but I tried to go with what felt right for the character.

_Pause. Take a breath. Take a step back. It’s okay. Just Breathe._

-

1\. The first time he says it they’re in the checkout line.

“Mickey, do we need milk?” 

“How the fuck am I suppose to know?” 

Ian looked closer at the list to double-check that they had crossed everything off. They had been standing in line for what seemed like hours before the line started moving again. In front of them was the slowest twenty-year-old in the world with a baby that wouldn’t stop screaming and behind them was an old lady in a pink sweater. 

“Jesus, this would have been quicker if we just stole the shit,” Mickey groaned, gripping the cart tighter. The comment earned a few glances and an exaggerated gasp from the old woman behind them. The people who looked wouldn’t have batted an eye if Ian had said it. Ian was nice and clean and didn’t have visible crude tattoos. But because it came from the guy with knuckle tats, people were concerned he was serious. They judged him so quickly, he gripped the bar even tighter, his knuckles turning white. 

Ian glanced over and saw his husband's tight-jawed expression and white knuckles and placed a hand over Mickey’s own. He instinctively relaxed into the touch and loosened his jaw. Mickey gave Ian a small smile. 

“Disgusting.” 

Mickey’s blood boiled and before he knew what he was doing, he flipped around and stared at the woman who suddenly looked incredibly frightened. 

“The fuck did you just say to me?” 

She stammered and backed away. He felt a hand on his shoulder but he didn't acknowledge it. 

“I just said my opinion. It’s disgusting, sir, _sinful_ ,” she grabbed her collar and looked around for support. 

“Oh, I’ll show you a fucking sin,” he lunged forward but was quickly caught by Ian’s hand on his chest. 

“Mickey, wait, pause. Look at me,” Ian whispered in his ear. 

He looked, Ian’s eyes were calm, kind. No judgment or disgust there, just Ian. Mickey didn’t even realize how quick and heavy his breaths had become until he actually tried to slow his breathing. He noticed Ian was breathing slowly, his chest rising and falling naturally. He tried to match it’s easy in and out.

“Okay?” Ian asked. His hand moved from the center of his chest to his heart, right over the place where he branded Ian’s name. 

He nodded, “Okay.”

“Wait outside, this won’t take long.” 

Mickey nodded and cast a glance behind him at the old woman still quaking with fear. He walked out, trying to ignore some of the stares he got, and waited in their car. 

Three minutes later, Ian came out, holding a couple of bags. The trunk opened and closed with a slam that made Mickey flinch. He closed his eyes and waited to hear Ian get in beside him. 

Ian opened the door and ducked inside, he looked over at Mickey. 

“You good?” His voice was less filled with worry and concern, Mickey knew he did that on purpose. If he had to listen to Ian talk to him like he’s dying too many times, he would fucking combust. 

“Yeah, fine,” he sighed. He thought about Ian’s words. _Pause._ How comforting it was to hear Ian’s voice be so calm. 

He had paused and stopped and came down from the mountain of anger that grew in him so quickly. 

_Pause._

_\---_

2\. The second time it happened, Mickey had a nightmare. A horrible one. A Terry one. 

_The waves push him under, the water fills his lungs, he chokes. In the distance, Terry’s laughing, calling him a pussy, burning his cigarettes on some poor kid's skin, telling him to man up. He tries to go to him, save him. But every time he reaches the surface of the water he only gets pulled down again. The current takes him under and he can’t fucking breathe. He can’t save the kid, he gives up. Where’s Ian? He needs to get to Ian, he can’t let Terry find him. What if he finds him? How can he protect him when he’s drowning, helpless, pathetic? He kicks his legs and flails, taking a breath and inhaling the water, he’s sinking deeper, there’s no way out-_

“Mickey, Mickey, hey, wake up.”

He threw one hand in front of his face and swung the other wide, he knocked into something before he even opened his eyes. 

“Shit, ow!” 

_Ian_. 

He opened his eyes and rubbed his face, it was slick with sweat. He saw Ian rubbing his own shoulder with concern written on his face. 

His breathing hasn’t slowed enough yet to speak, it still felt like he was being choked, like there was still water in his lungs. He wondered if Ian was okay but he couldn’t speak, could only sit there while his body continued to panic beyond his control. The lack of control only made it worse, his chest tightened and his clothes started sticking to his body and there was nothing he can do about it. 

_Be a man._

He can’t. He can’t control, he can’t calm down, he can’t check on Ian. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. 

Then Ian put a hand on his back. 

That’s supposed to make him feel better, Ian always makes him feel better. 

But instead, it makes his skin crawl. Mickey smacked it away and jumped out of bed, he heard himself breathing in gasps now, large and quick and involuntary. He made a b-line for the bathroom, he slammed the door shut but he could hear Ian running after him. 

Ian knocked gently and turned the knob. His head popped in and gently spoke, “Hey, what the fuck was that?” 

Mickey shook his head, chest still tight. 

“Hey, baby, _pause_.”

_Pause, take a step back, take a deep breath, it’s okay._

Ian moved into the bathroom and shut the door, he carefully put his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, checking to make sure it’s okay to do so. The light pressure was grounding now, comforting, not the same feeling as before. Before it felt suffocating which only panicked him more, Ian never felt suffocating, Ian was comfort, always has been. But it’s safe now. _For now._

Ian breathed in deep and Mickey followed him, trying desperately to match the slow in and out pattern he was setting. He refused to look him in the eye so he chose to stare at his chest, looking at its rise and fall with the sounds of Ian's breaths. He hiccuped here and there but in several minutes, he was breathing evenly. 

Ian’s hands moved from his shoulders to his head, still gentle but firm, a constant presence grounding him to reality, “Are you okay?” He whispered it like a secret. If there was anyone on the other side of that door, they wouldn’t have heard him. 

Mickey nodded, still in slight shock. 

“Do you want me to get you some water?” 

Mickey hesitates but nods after a minute. He doesn’t want to be a bother but his throat is dry and cramped up and spit isn’t doing the trick. 

Ian smiled and nodded, “Okay. Go back to bed, I’ll be there soon,” he kissed his cheek and opened the door, he could hear Ian’s distant footsteps getting softer and softer. 

_Pause. Take a breath. Take a step back. It’s okay._

_You’re okay, he’s okay, we’re okay._

His legs were wobbly and his body was tired, weighed down by the panic that had just jumped started his body, all of that energy had now left his body, leaving him in a haze. He stumbled back to bed and sat on their mattress, digging his hands into the sheets that covered foam. 

Ian crept in holding a glass of water and a bag of chips. 

“I thought you might want some food too,” he sat them both down on Mickey’s nightstand, “do you want to talk about it or do you just wanna go to bed?” 

Mickey thought about it for a minute. He was tired but he didn’t want to go to sleep, not just yet. The nightmare could come back, a worse one. One where Ian doesn’t wake him up, one where Ian isn’t there to get him water and chips and tell him to pause. But his other option was talking and discussing the dream would also require him to tell Ian that it’s recurring, that he's had it before and it scares the living shit out of him. 

He shook his head. Neither of those things were good options to Mickey. 

“I have an idea,” Ian stepped around their bed to his side and crouched down. Mickey watched him dig around for a few minutes before holding something up victoriously, in the darkness it took him a minute to figure out Ian was holding a pair of earbuds. 

He plugged them into his phone and laid down with his back half-propped up against the wall. He stuck out an arm and motioned for Mickey to join him. Mickey smiled, _Stupid fucking Gallagher, why do you always do the sweetest shit?_

He took a sip of his water and grabbed the chips before snuggling up to Ian, he pulled up Netflix and handed him one earbud while he put the other in his ear. They watched _Schitt's Creek_ and ate chips in silence, Mickey’s head relaxed on Ian’s shoulder until his eyes felt heavy with sleep, he closed his eyes and listened to the dulcet sounds of the intro music and Ian’s even breathing until darkness closed around him. 

3\. The third time it happened, there was just too much fucking noise. 

Mickey’s fine with noise. He really is but some days it just gets too much. With the T.V. blaring and Debbie whining about something while Franny runs around the kitchen and the neighbors banging on shit, it’s just overwhelming. There’s no escape, it feels like he’s trapped. 

Ian’s at work and he’ll be there for another ten minutes. He could make it ten minutes. 

He got three minutes in before he yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” and stormed out. 

The noise inside the house stopped again. Debbie snapped her neck toward Mickey and Franny stopped dead in her tracks, he knew tears were already forming in her eyes. He didn’t look at her though, he doesn’t know what he would do if he made that kid cry. He just slammed the door and sits on the porch, The banging from the neighbors is still loud, making his ears ring. He covered them with his hands and tucked his head in his lap. He felt gross and pathetic and exposed. There was just too much happening and he couldn't control it. He stayed there until he felt a warm hand on his bicep. He flinched back, removing his hands from his ears. Ian stands over him on the porch. 

“Hey, Debbie told me what happened,” Ian said gently, sitting down next to him. 

The banging across the street stops. 

He wondered what Debbie told him, probably that he’s a little bitch who can’t deal with a little noise. She probably thinks he’s fucking crazy and stupid and whiny-

_Shit, I can’t breathe._

He tried to take a breath. It’s shaky. The tight feeling is back. His eyes began to water. 

“What happened?” 

Mickey furrowed his eyebrows and gestured toward the door behind them, “Didn’t she fucking tell you?” 

“I wanna hear what happened to you. Not to her. She said that you freaked out and screamed at her kid. You wouldn’t do that kinda shit,” he placed his hand on Mickey’s back and rubbed, “now what happened?” 

“There was too much,” he muttered quietly. 

“Too much what?” 

“Fucking noise! There’s too much fucking noise! Debbie’s fucking yelling and the kids running around all over the fucking place and someone’s building a fucking fortress across the fucking street and-” he cut himself off and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t speak anymore. 

“Hey, hey,” Ian whispered gently in his ear, shifting closer, “Mickey, just pause, okay. You’re okay,” he rubbed his hand up and down Mickey’s back. 

_Pause. Take a breath. Take a step back. It’s okay. Just Breathe._

A few minutes passed, “I didn’t yell at the kid. I swear,” Mickey lifts his head.

“I know you didn’t. But kids, man, they don’t understand that shit. She thought you were yelling at her, not just in general, you know,” Ian kissed his shoulder and stood up. He put out a hand. 

Mickey took it. 

“I fucking know. I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

“It’s okay, Mick.”

They walked inside silently. 

In the house, Debbie was sitting on the couch with a beer, she looked over at him, “Oh, are you back to yell at my kid more?” 

“Debs, no,” Ian shot her a look then turned to Mickey, “Go upstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Mickey nodded and rubbed his eyes, he was too tired and self-loathing to argue against her. He stumbled his way up the stairs and into bed. He waited there for ten minutes and got bored. Ian said he would be there and he wasn’t. He felt cold and uncomfortable, he wanted Ian to wrap his stupidly big arms around him and just hold him, even if he felt gay for thinking it. 

“Where the fuck are you, Gallagher?” he whispers to himself. He looked towards the door, hoping he could manifest Ian coming through it but it doesn’t work. Eventually, he got up and walked down the stairs quietly. Mickey decided to take the stairs that lead to the kitchen, if he couldn’t find Ian, at least he could get a fucking snack. He told himself it wasn’t because he was afraid Debbie would still be down there, loathing him. He made it to the third step before he heard a small voice. 

“Is Uncle Mickey mad at me?” It’s Franny, _shit, shit, shit._ She thinks he yelled at her, she thinks he just lashes out for no reason. He doesn’t want to be that. He reminded himself of what his dad would do, yell just to yell, hit just to hit. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat at the thought of being anything like Terry. 

“No, Fran,” Ian replies, “No, he just-” he stopped. Mickey wondered if Ian even knew what to say, knew how to respond. Mickey wondered if Ian’s annoyed with him and frustrated with him for yelling at his niece and sister. He probably is, he knows that Ian loves him - he knows that - but that doesn’t mean he can’t hate him sometimes. Maybe this is a line that Mickey crossed even though he didn’t mean to. He swears he didn’t, it just happened, the rage pouring out of him so quickly that he had barely noticed it happened. 

“Franny, do you know what anxiety is?” 

_What?_

Franny must have shaken her head because Ian goes on to say, “Well, it’s like panic for Uncle Mickey, right? Like, sometimes, things can trigger it-”

“Like being loud?” 

“Exactly! It gets too much and he starts to panic. He wasn’t yelling at you, Franny. He was just starting to panic but I promise he didn’t mean to make you feel bad. And it’s not your fault, but it’s also not his fault things like that happen to him, it’s just that Uncle Mickey was feeling bad-”

“Is he sick?” 

Ian is silent, Mickey imagined that Ian was contemplating with his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quirked to the side. Then he spoke, ever so softly, “It’s sort of like that, yeah. He needs a minute to get better but tomorrow he’ll be okay again, don't worry,” Ian finishes. 

“Will you tell him I’m sorry that he feels bad,” She stumbled over some of the words, and Mickey’s heart clenched. 

“I will, I’m sure that’ll make him feel so much better. I need to go up and make sure he’s doing okay though. But here, come on, let’s get you to bed, okay?” 

Mickey quickly crept back upstairs fully and walked to their bedroom, shutting the door to make sure he isn’t suspected. Laying on the bed, he listened to Ian walk by his room and how he gently tells Franny good night even though it’s barely seven. Maybe he should go to sleep too. 

The accordion door opened and Ian entered their room, “Hey, Mick? I brought you some water if you want it.” 

Mickey looked over at him and smiles. Ian somehow always knows what to do, he has this innate ability to just say and do all the right things and Mickey can only stand and stare. He can just take care of people and calm them with only a simple word. 

_Pause._

Ian crawled into bed with him and gently grabbed hold of his waist, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed together. He pressed a kiss to his neck. 

“Are you still okay?” 

“‘M Fine, asshole.”

“Good, dickbreath.”

-

Later that night, Franny snuck into their room while the couple was still sleeping, tangled in each other's limbs. She put a homemade card on the table that read:

“Dear Uncle Mickey + Uncle Ian

I hope you feel better <3

(P.S. Mama’s not really mad at you)” 

Mickey tears up when he reads it. 

Two weeks later, Ian came home with soundproof headphones. Mickey wasn't not sure how to thank him, Ian had a few ideas. 

4\. The fourth time it happens Mickey’s dad moves in next door.

Then Terry gets shot and paralyzed. 

Mickey stares at him. 

Ian tells him to pause. 

Mickey doesn’t listen. 

He pulls his gun. 

His finger dances on the trigger as he presses the gun to his chest. He stares into his father’s hardening eyes. He wants to scream. He wants to kill him. He wants to cry and break down and be held. He thinks about his father, not the one he sees before him, not the one who’s helpless and defenseless but rather the one who burned his cigarettes into his skin. The one who would get drunk and piss on him while he slept. The one who would throw bottles at his head. The one who pistol-whipped him and had a Russian rape him. The one who beat him and hit him and tries to kill him. He looks at the man who was supposed to care for him, supposed to protect him. He remembers defending him, telling Ian to shut up when he talked shit about him. He remembers even thinking, _he isn’t that bad._ He remembers the hope and love he used to have for his father. He remembers the excuses, how, no matter the fiery anger, the fists flying at him, he told himself _it could be worse._ Mickey would defend him. _Care_ for him. His throat closes and he chokes on all the shattered hopes he had for him. He used to think he’s fucked for life. He used to think that he would never amount to shit, that he would end up dead or in jail, still terrified and hiding away. The love and compassion Mickey had would fade away into resentment and hatred, transforming him into his father. The idea traces back to Terry, it didn’t just manifest in Mickey’s head, it was forced down his throat. As a Milkovich, everything traces back to Terry. The leader of the gang, the clan, the family. _What if I end up like him?_ What happens then? Angry and violent, sentenced to a life of drugs and guns with a family who leaves him on the grass when he’s at his most vulnerable. At his weakest, with no one to defend him or protect him. He thinks about Ian, standing behind him instead of in front of the gun because he trusts Mickey, he steps aside and allows Mickey space when he needs it. He checks with Mickey because he knows about his pain, he rubs his shoulders and gently asks him to pause. 

_Pause. Pause. Pause. Wait, think about it. Is he worth it? Is he worth going to jail for? Is he worth losing the life you have for yourself? Is he worth the pain Ian will go through when you’re taken to prison again? Is he worth a life on your hands? Is he worth anything?_

A part of him tells him to shoot him. Shoot him because he can, Terry’s at his most vulnerable, there’s no one here but Ian. He thinks about spousal privilege. He thinks about the wedding and the proposal and the argument leading up to it. The hell they went through to get here. To be safe and happy. But he wants to make him suffer, to cause him pain, the same he went through every single day. He wants to make him feel it. 

_He can’t feel it if he’s dead. You can’t be happy if you’re in prison._

_Do you want to be like him? Or be better?_

_Do you want to prove him right? Or prove him wrong?_

_Two options. Pause, take a step back, breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay. You can be okay._

He steps away, he hears Ian sigh in relief. He spits on the ground in front of him.

Ian asks him what that was about. 

“Nothing,” he says in response. 

  1. The first time they actually talk about it.



It’s late. They should be asleep by now but they’re just laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. A part of him wants to lean over and start something. Sex always makes it better, he’s close to Ian that way without actually having to say he wants it. It’s comforting.

Another part of him can’t move. It was a long fucking day and Mickey is barely conscious enough to handle it. Dealing with his father than dealing with moving, it’s just too much right now. 

He hesitates before he shifts and pulls the blanket up to his chest, moving so he leans against Ian. His head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped around his waist. Ian sighs and pulls him closer. 

The tension in his body dissipates. 

“Not fucking tonight, huh?” Ian asks softly, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s ruffled black hair. 

“If you wanna, I’m up for it,” he lies. He’s exhausted and overwhelmed and he doesn’t know if that would be a good experience for anyone. 

“Not really. Too tired to get it up,” Ian pauses for a minute, “Are you okay?” 

Mickey nods as best he can with his head stuck underneath Ian’s chin. Vaguely, he can hear a dog barking outside. Everything is quiet. He starts to replay the day in his head. Not everything was stressful, he made some money, spent the day running around town with his husband, fixed up the ambulance. He’s okay. 

“You know, it’s okay not to be, right.”

Mickey furrowed his eyebrows. _What the fuck does that mean?_

He opens his mouth to speak before he closes it. He thinks back on the pausing. He thinks back on the ways Ian has talked him off the ledge a million times. He thinks about how comforting Ian has been, how much he’s sounded like fucking therapist. 

“What’s up with that shit?” He blurts out and sits up, knocking Ian’s chin on his way up. 

“Fuck. What shit?” Ian adjusts so he’s able to look at Mickey, who’s now looking down at him, one hand propping himself up on the bed and the other resting on his chest. 

“The whole Dr. Phil shit? What’s it about?” Mickey flails his hand for emphasis. 

Ian looks guilty, he purses his lips and looks around the room at their upside-down clock. Mickey’s not sure why he’s upset. He doesn’t know why he had to go and ruin it. He just doesn’t understand why Ian is being so goddamn careful with everything he’s saying. Like he’s fragile. He wonders idly if this is how Ian felt when Mickey motherhenned him at the beginning of his diagnosis. He keeps looking at Ian as he twirls his head around as if he was looking for an escape. 

Then Ian meets his eyes and takes his hand, “I just started to notice things you would do, that’s all. It started with the flower shop lady, you know, the one you tried to stab.”

Mickey does remember, he remembers the old bitch wouldn’t give him the stargazers lilies because he liked cock. He also remembered taking a pen and trying to jam it into her chest right before Ian pulled him away and forced him out of the shop before she called the police. 

“But then I started thinking about the shit before that. The guy from when we were trying to cross the border, how you lunged at him,” he chuckled, “I think you’re well aware you have a little bit of a short temper.”

He was. He didn’t know when it started, he didn’t know why it happened. It just washed over him in quick waves. Like someone shackled him to the bottom of a pool and filled it up, leaving Mickey drowning in the feeling. Until someone pulls him out, that someone is almost always Ian. He always tells him to _pause._

“And sometimes I would wake you up and you would try to fucking fight me, Mick,” Mickey opened his mouth to argue, “It’s not your fault, though. I just got to thinking about it and I looked it up some of the things you would do, you know?” 

“Like fucking what?” That good feeling Mickey had had been washed away and it now felt like he was being judged. What did the fuck did he do so wrong that made Ian do that? 

Ian’s other hand flew up into the air, he blew out exasperated, “I don’t know, Mick. Like, _‘My husband freaks out when I wake him up.’_ I got recommended some things that explained a lot about…” he trailed off. 

Mickey looked at him expectantly, “About what?” 

“Mickey,” Ian sat up against the wall and squeezed his hands, “I think maybe you have anxiety.” 

Mickey remembers Ian telling Franny this. He didn’t bring it up then, it had just slipped his mind.

Ian continued, “So, I looked up how to help with it. It’s been helping hasn’t it?” 

“Is that what that pausing shit is about?” 

Ian shrugged, “Yeah. Someone told me that I should try to stay with and help ground you and that time-outs are helpful,” he smiled at the last one. 

“I’m not a toddler. And what do you mean someone told you? Who the hell did you tell?” Mickey’s voice raised but Ian kept his calm, even. Mickey assumed this was another thing he was told to do. 

“No one you know, Mickey. There was just this forum thing and I asked a question about how to help you. And-”

“You posted that shit on the internet!” Mickey jumped away from Ian. 

Again, Ian kept his voice low. This somehow irritated Mickey more, “I didn’t use any names, Mick. I just said I wanted to help my husband, that’s all.” 

Mickey relaxed slightly. At least no one knows, no one can think he’s weak, “Fucking good. Better not.”

Ian slowly grabbed his hand and brought it to his lips, “I wouldn’t do that.”

They stayed silent for a few minutes. Just soaking in the new information. _Anxiety._ He repeated the word over and over and over again in his head until it died in his head, it no longer sounded like a word. But that’s what Mickey had, _anxiety._ Panic, fear. 

He thought of the times they paused again. The times where he was overwhelmed by his emotions, not just fear, but anger. Maybe there was a little fear there too, maybe he panicked when the woman at the grocery store called them disgusting. Maybe pausing helps. 

“It does,” he muttered. Ian looked over at him. 

“What does what?” His voice got high. 

“It-the pauses and shit-it does help,” he takes his hand back out of Ian’s grip and moves again. He lays back in the position he started, where he felt the safest. Back in Ian’s arms, being held and loved and protected. 

They were right back where they started, wrapped around each other in silence. 

“It sucks,” Mickey says after a while. He doesn’t elaborate, Ian knows what he means. He feels Ian’s shaky breath blow on his hair. 

“I know,” Ian tugs him tighter, as if the more pressed he is against his body, the less it’ll suck. Mickey thinks it’s a valid theory. 

“Thank you,” he starts, “for tryin’ and shit,'' Mickey feels his heart swell when he thinks about it. Ian sat at a computer, meticulously looking through article after article, trying to figure out the best way to help, the best way to ease Mickey’s pain. 

“You would do the same for me.” 

He would. He did. When Ian first got his bipolar diagnosis, Mickey had researched what to do considering he knew nothing about it, he didn’t want to somehow make it worse. He went to the library and sat at the computer for hours. He stood in the pharmacy looking at all the fucking B’s before deciding to just scrape all of them into his basket. He gave Ian kisses on his forehead after a failed attempt at a blowjob to let him know it was okay. He would do it all again if he needed to. 

He thinks back on Ian’s words earlier.

_Would you take care of me if I were paralyzed?_

_Yeah._

Of course, he would. Because that’s what they do, they care for each other when they need to, and when they don’t need to, without being asked or begged. They just do. No matter what. 

Mickey smiles and buries his face into Ian’s chest while Ian does the same to Mickey’s hair. They get lost in each other for a few hours. Mickey doesn’t know where this whole anxiety thing will go, he’s scared Ian’s right and this is something serious. He isn’t sure what he’ll do if he is. 

But at least, he knows he’ll always have someone to take care of him if he was paralyzed. 

He’ll always have Ian.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you enjoyed, open to criticism.


End file.
